Coffee In The Morning
by tfbl
Summary: On the morning of the yearly family get together Jonn, Molly, and Sherlock share coffee in the kitchen. Story is better then it sounds. I suck at Summaries. Established John/Sherlock/Molly


**Disclaimer:** The pairing is mine. The names for Sherlocks' parents are taken from _His Dark Materials_ by Philip Pullman

**Coffee In The Morning**

The cold wakes her. Normally that wouldn't happen, seeing as how their bed regularly holds three bodies, and as such resembles a furnace most nights. Plus, what with Sherlock's octopus like limbs that wrap around her and John from his customary place in between them, it almost guarantees that what will awake her will be something along the lines of an arm jabbing into her ribs.

She looks blurrily at the clock. The glowing red numbers read five fifteen. It's Sunday, and even though it's _the_ Sunday that marks the yearly Holmes-Watson get together , there's no reason for any of them to be up so early. The fact that both of her husbands as well as herself are, proves that the habit is too ingrained to break.

Nine years and three kids ensure it.

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_The scent of coffee wafts into the room through the open door. Downstairs the much used machine gurgles and spits. _

_Her leg is numb._

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Ah, so that's where the draft is coming from. Yes, definitely too early.

Swinging her body from the no longer cozy nest Molly walks down the stairs, automatically avoiding the creaky one and not caring if her hair's a rats nest or her red pajama shirt is on inside out and backwards.

John and Sherlock are seated at the table, their coffee already before them and a mug awaiting her at her customary chair. Plopping down in her seat Molly stares down at the hot drink before her, still half asleep and unsurprised when her containers of flavored cream appear at her elbow as if by magic. Looking up and seeing the state of her husbands Molly decides that magic _did_ play a role, for John, in his rumpled green checkered bathrobe and half shut eyes looks little better then her, and although Sherlock is wrapped in a sheet and moderately bright eyed as he taps out a violin piece upon the table top, he is more likely to compliment Anderson then to reach across four inches and retrieve his wife's favorite flavors.

So the fairies had helped her out then. Bless them.

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_The car needs fixing. Appointment at the auto body shop tomorrow._

_Molly stirs in the Hazelnut cream, blearily watching as the hue of the liquid shifts from near ebony to a rich gold._

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The flat is silent, and Molly knows to enjoy it while it lasts. For in two hours the kids will be awake, which will single the usual chatter and whines about getting dressed after breakfast – eggs and toast today, for soon they'll get hipped up on sugary treats – and by nine o'clock everyone will have arrived.

John's mother. Rebecca Watson, short and plump with graying light brown hair, spewing cutting comments concerning her daughter-in-law and her son's latent bisexuality issued under the guise of "motherly concern". Nothing overt, no. Just enough to know that although the woman claims to accept others as they are, she does not accept her son. Does not approve of his choices nor the spouses whom he loves, despite the fact that she does indeed love her son. Would rather that Rebecca see John miserable and alone than with both of them (rather then with _Sherlock_ goes unvoiced but is heard all the same), and either does not see or care the effect her words have upon her son.

Harry won't be stopping by this time. For once alcohol is not involved but her absence is expected nonetheless. Acceptable, in this case, seeing as how Clara's brother passed away last month.

Mycroft, Asriel, and Marisa Holmes.

Her brother-in-law whom is most likely one of the most powerful and dangerous men on the planet, whom adores his nieces and nephew as well as his brother, and is more devious than Sherlock is on his best days. Someone for whom the end always justifies the means, regardless of what or whom those means were. Especially if that end means protecting those whom he holds most dear. Power? That's a damn close second. A man that can become ruthless and downright terrifying in the blink of an eye, as can a savage alpha wolf defending its spoils, be they living or dead. A man that still, to this day, monitors their every move and is aware of every detail of their personal lives almost before they themselves are aware of it. They'd long since given up trying to locate all the cameras. If he happens to see what all three of them got up to in the living room yesterday that's fine by Molly. Wouldn't teach him anything, though.

Asriel Holmes. Tall and strikingly elegant with thick silver hair that was once Sherlock's rich brown. Genuine laughter and fatherly concern that he can never hide, savage flashing eyes along with small smiles and strong hands. Whose powerful, great cat like stride indicates a man well accustomed to power and whose expression says that he'd do anything for his family. Anything. That _anything_ coupled with enough power at his fingertips to send the government to its knees and a stare that can become diamond hard in the blink of an eye? Scares the hell out of Molly, to be honest. Unnerves John even, if you can imagine that.

Marisa . Stunningly beautiful and graceful, her white hair nearly unchanged from her pervious platinum blonde. A woman with of the cunning of a cobra and whom wields more power and influence then Mycroft and her husband combined. A thousand times more then what James Moriarty once wielded with a single push of a button. All cool stares and warm smiles along with soft laughter, and whose reserved warmth leaves no doubt that her family is just above power in terms of importance. Only, sometimes, when her voice becomes the sickly sweet of rotten honey and her words like whips, her actions like frozen swords that she knows exactly where to plunge to rip the heart out of an opponent as that cruelty Molly knows Marisa relishes in rises to the forefront within her, Molly almost isn't sure which one her mother-in-law would choose, if it came down to it.

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_Sherlock sips. Slow and hearty. The cloud of steam and the thick black rim of his mug momentarily obscuring his mouth. _

_The sheet slips off his shoulder, reveling two nicotine patches. Even from here Molly can smell the faint odor of smoke on his breath. He's stressed about the coming hours as well, with not even a case to take his mind off it._

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John puts his hand over Sherlock's to still the instant tapping, and instead of pulling away Sherlock automatically creases the calloused knuckles with his thumb, his cold and bare foot brushing against her leg underneath the table. Molly remembers how long that took, for John to give touch and for Sherlock to accept it (from him as well as her), after Sherlock had returned from destroying what remained of ' Moriarty's web. Three years. Three years of them all living together in the apartment, thanks to the death of John's fiancée, Mary, and her own home being destroyed in a fire. Three years of battles and growing feelings along with cases and laughter and shouting before apologizes and tea and danger nights and Mycroft throwing _that _look their way. Three years of a million little things and a thousand large ones, many of which have been forgotten and yet have not.

It's all lead them to where they are now. Belonging to each other and fights coupled with eye rolls because of her and Jon's "tiny little minds", smiles and kissing and Sherlock bouncing cases off them, finger paint on the walls and wails over scraped knees, those things that make her want to hit the fools upside the head, Mrs. Hudson barging in anytime she pleases and everything else and then some.

Molly wouldn't change a single thing and neither would they…. even when Sherlock plays his violin as loud as possible so he can pretend he can't hear when Mycroft reminds him of the time when in a bout of frustration and jealously he reveled to them in front of the entire Scotland Yard exactly why he used to sabotage John's dates and always needed her to work alongside him despite the hour….

and Molly swears to God that if today Rebecca makes one, just one, more veiled comment about John's relationship with them she will throw her out of their home herself – _they're happy and in love and legally married thanks to Mycroft's rope pulling and that's not going to change and good God how can't you see how much you're hurting your son, how deeply your words cut him for 36 bloody years so much so that he shoved that part of himself down and is probley the reason why your daughter almost drank herself to death you stupid_ - but hopefully it won't come to that.

Especially seeing as how last year, when another "concerned" comment had passed her mother-in-law's lips and Marisa, in her golden fox fur coat, frozen blue irises, and perfectly styled hair had intervened and proven _exactly_ where Sherlock had inherited his tongue. The poorly concealed fear in Rebecca's eyes had intensified, Molly recalled, when she saw Marisa's glacial rage mirrored in Asriel 's cool gray orbs and Sherlock's frozen features.

Rebecca had not said another word the entire night. Not one. It'd been great.

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_They're almost out of milk, and she needs to make an outfit for her sons' school play. Was it a tree? No… an apple? One of her husbands would know, but Molly doesn't feel like talking._

_Her next. Short and moderately slow, tipping the mug toward her face like it's a pint in a bar. It's hot, but not scalding. Like an overcast sun. A drop runs down the side of the mug, leaving a light trail across the purple grapes dancing along the background of white._

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Thankfully there has never been one mention as to the biological parentage of any of their children. Not Kathryn, Abigail, nor Oliver. Molly knows they wonder, her extended family, (and Molly will bite off her own hand if the Holmes side doesn't already know) but no questions have been raised. Not even by Rebecca, which is a surprise in and of itself, even though its clear that she loves them… you'd still think she'd ask wouldn't you? Both Sherlock and John are the fathers regardless of whose genes played a role, as far as all three of them are concerned. Besides the fact that two seven year old twin girls and a five year old boy are too young to truly wonder anyway, those features: chocolate curls and wavy gold strands, brown iris along with a single hazel set, all paler then ghosts, noses and mouths and cheekbones plus everything else… they all could have been inherited from any one of them. The name Watson-Holmes is on the birth certifates, the fathers' name left blank, and unless one of their children wish to know once they reach eighteen that's the way it will stay.

Speaking of children…

The school called about a meeting scheduled for tomorrow. Apparently Abigail spent recess dissecting a dead pigeon with a pencil, having found the creature underneath the monkey bars. She'd told her teacher the names and locations of all the organs too. That's what happens when children are around morgue kept cadavers, human hearts and cat heads floating in jars, and other unmentionables including a raccoon that was providing information on fly larvae intake, all before they can walk. Well, at least their daughter remembered to wear gloves this time and didn't mention the second fridge that contains eyeballs and bits of other parts along with moldy fruit. She and John attended the most recent meetings – Kathryn's three and Oliver's two - all of which were the result of something similar, so Sherlock will be going by himself this time, and sod it if he makes the principle cry.

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_John drinks. Quick, measured mouthfuls. A throwback to his military days. The thin, yellow rim barley touching his lips before it is set back down, the drink inside almost stone cold._

_He needs to shave. Too much stubble, according to him._

_He'd lost a patient last week. A child that'd been raped before being nearly beaten to death. The internal bleeding and chipped bone fragments did the rest. _

_John hasn't felt like shaving._

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Today, hopefully – _maybe? most likely not_. – Molly hopes that the kids show off their rudimentary but fairly accurate understanding of the Periodic Table, it is not reveled that Oliver and Kathryn beat (and bit) the snot out of some boy that pushed Abigail out of the lunch line or that John accidently taught them to say "dog's bullocks", and that once the kids fall asleep the Holmes version of a asstrocatic and wholly civilized full out brawl _does_ occur, as they are highly entertaining.

She wants their grandfather to dote on them like always, to laugh with Marisa and get kisses from Rebecca, and for herself to loose a game of chess with Mycroft after he's read the kids to sleep. She is hopeful that none of them learn that some of Kathryn's school mates have started to pick on her because of her interests and that gap in her front teeth – John would quietly fume while Rebecca would tut and fret, and the entire Holmes clan would go more likely then not go on the war path and terrify the poor, bullying child…. never mind the fact that it's a bloody _child_.

Molly hopes that she doesn't scream at Rebecca, that Sherlock can deduce something embarrassing enough to make her shut up, and that there's enough tea bags for afternoon tea.

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_An owl flies past the window. The sky is lightening, turning the dull gray that precedes dawn._

_Sherlock gets up to refill his mug, the tarish substance simmering in the pot on the stove something that only a Holmes can stomach rapidly filling the eight by four piece of ceramic. Turkish Coffee. Black with two teaspoons of sugar. Loud, robust, mildly sweet, and goes down surprisingly smooth. Thick enough to pave roads and strong enough to wake up a corpse. Just how he likes it._

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Molly glances around the room, automatically giving it a last minute appraisal. Mercifully it is still clean: pillows arranged, furniture straight, windows clean, jelly stains scrubbed from the counters, the carpet and desk free of dust, toys, book piles, and science equipment. By tomorrow afternoon it will be reduced to its usual state, no doubt, but at least her mother-in-law won't throw that glance around the room. The one that says a trained monkey could do a better job. Rebecca Watson would employ said monkey too. Likely has it on speed dial, come to think of it.

Asriel and Mycroft hate uncleanness too, but they'd just send over a cleaning crew. That wouldn't be too bad. Mycroft's actually _done_ it, in fact.

Marisa is more tolerant about it. Nearly casual even. Molly wouldn't have believed it if she hadn't visited the Holmes matriarch in their grand, almost mansion like home numerous times over the years. Her always impeccably dressed mother in law donning jeans, mud and grass stains, attic dust, baseball cleats, and cobwebs in the privacy of her own home. She'd even gotten up to her elbows in oil while working on a collection of antique cars bound for auction. Quite cheerfully to, as a matter of fact.

Sherlock clearly got _that _from her as well. John agrees wholeheartedly.

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_John takes his mug as well as hers and refills them, using the normal coffee from the pot. The stuff that regular people can drink without destroying their stomach lining. _

_Breakfast Blend? No. Starlight! That's it._

_John sets Molly's down in front of her before preparing his own. Milk, no sugar. Off sweet with an obvious strength beneath, soothing when consumed. Strong enough to leave an impression, but not to awaken a serious coffee addict._

_The clock ticks._

_Once. _

_Twice._

_The minute hand moves forward._

_It's six o'clock._

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Molly hopes it will go well today, between the four men that will soon inhabit the flat. Bickering, silence, polite surface conversation, and travail questions will be what occurs today. It is not that they do not like each other (they_ love_ each other the idiots, even if they never admit it), it's just that none of them have much in common and therefore little to talk about. The Holmes men are extremely similar as well, so that doesn't help any. There's also the fact that while Sherlock is simply uncomfortable with openly expressing his emotions even to those whom matter to him, Mycroft and Asriel have adopted that old Victorian era, traditional Holmes view: showing emotion in public, even at a family event, is the height of bad manners and must be avoided at all costs. What they don't realize is that, around one another, their eyes give them away. Always have.

Concern, anger, fear, pride, hurt, love, joy…. utter devastation.

(That one Molly recalls all too well, for she had stared into those very eyes –two sets: one gray and the other blue. Equally lifeless. Equally heartbroken. Equally dead. – across a coffin that only she knew to be empty. Recalls and it still stings of a guilt that she should no longer feel… but that _nothing_ meant a pain greater then anything she had ever known. It was bad enough that Molly had been aware that she'd been aiding in taking away a friend and a brother but not that she'd be ripping someone's _son_ away from them! It'd taken her a long time to forgive Sherlock for that).

Now John… around Sherlock he's at ease of course, so he's like an open book more then anything else. With Mycroft it's about the same as well, except for that hint of weariness that is never present around Sherlock. Now both Mycroft and Asriel together? It makes him very uncomfortable. In true soldiers' form, whenever John is uncomfortable enough he adopts a militarily parade rest: back straight, shoulders pulled back, face closed, words clipped and impersonal.

Hard to develop a personal relationship with someone, when they're like a brick wall.

Now the woman? That will go more smoothly.

Marisa? Maybe a bit of frosted warmth here and there, but seeing as how she's got all of the Holmes men plus a single Watson wrapped around her little finger it shouldn't be too much of a trail. With Sherlock it's the violin and authors, his work and science coupled with crap telly. Mycroft? Polities, football, classic art and computers and expressing her worry over her eldest sons' lack of romantic partner. John's more along the lines of rugby, mechanical work, blogging and the girl's Scout meetings and the cooking class that John's taken up. Now Asriel? Her husband of over thirty years? Molly isn't sure what they talk about, seeing as the conversation switches between at least two dozen languages other then English… but judging by the way their sons intently follow the conversations regardless of the language it must be pretty interesting. Add the fact that they hold Marisa's heart in their hands and that Molly actually enjoys being around her? It seals the deal.

Rebecca? As long as there's no bloodshed, there's moderate polite conversation, and that painful smile doesn't linger on John's face too long Molly will consider the day to be a success.

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_Six fifteen._

_The sun's rising, peach and purple shooting across the sky._

_John yawns, Sherlock blinks heavily, and Molly plays with the sugar._

_She adds more cream to her coffee. Vanilla and Hazelnut this time. That's all you can taste. Not even a hint of the bitter brew that lingers beneath. Overly sweet, some would say. Too weak and dull, like old watered-down tea. Well it gets the job done all the same and she can always count on it, regardless of the absence of coffee flavor. Besides, bitter has always left a horrible flavor in her mouth._

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What are they all going to do today? Molly knows that she should have considered this before, but with all the stress she'd forgotten.

Amusement park? No, definitely not.

Ice skating? Perhaps.

Museum? Tolerable.

Staying inside? Has its merits, but they still need a back up plan.

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_A loud noise sounds outside. A car backfiring. All three mugs freeze halfway to their mouths. All is quiet upstairs as well as in the apartment below. No calls for Mommy and not a single startled shriek from Mrs. Hudson. The mugs continue their journey. _

_Six thirty five. They need more toothpaste._

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She's worrying too much now. Just like she always does when a potentially stressful event draws nearer. Working herself up doesn't help any, Molly knows.

Still, there's food and put downs to look forward to plus that stain on the carpet that just wouldn't go away not to mention –

Two hands cover hers. One square and calloused, the other long and smooth skinned save for small scars dotting the surface.

Molly meets their eyes.

One set dark, the other light.

Both blue.

_Stop worrying._

_You're being an idiot again, you know. _

_It will be fine. _

_Just pretend you're opening up Kyle from IT._

_I can deduce them all down to their bare bones for you, if you'd like. _

_We love you._

Molly smiles. Squeezes back.

_I know. _

_Thanks, I'll be fine. _

_Love you._

The coffee pot is empty. The mugs are drained.

A thump sounds from upstairs. Another follows.

Seven o'clock.

Time to start the day.


End file.
